She's dark, yet
moonlight glows
inside her soft-eyes
& despite her
tragic-aura,
I still want
her blackness,
to taste her magic,
to kiss
the devil inside her.

There is a bubble shooting out of my hand,
And it's made of plastic hurt and loathing,
And it's as see- through as I am,
And it grows and grows and covers you,
All of you, and your loudness, your rudeness, your obnoxiousness,
Your stinky cloud of perfume and ridiculous eyeliner,
And your burnt hair and bitchiness and stupidity,
And now you're inside of it,
And it's shrinking and shrinking and making you as small as you seem,
The size of your brain,
And you're tiny next to me.

" I was not looking for a cage
       In which to mope in my old age." --- W H Auden

Turning sixty-five is not without its pleasures,
though the parameters of youth are rendered void.
You discover illusions are become a virtual reality,
a chimera you never outlived whose core is unmalleable.

So, one finds solace in their granddaughter,
who is unshackled by your paradoxes,
who presupposes only links to the obtainable.
And yet, she loves her "silly grandpa".

Old age is unexpected and doubt arises in the doctrine of wisdom,
a daily glass of prune juice becoming regiment.
Yet, granddaughters can connect the dots,
and, just maybe, afford us that second chance.

Regardless how precise the assay of their life,
Most men must remain an enigma;
Their motivation fired by inner strife
A polymorph for which no sigma,
Nor algebraic symbol will suffice.

No If and then which personality
To a course of action thus relates,
Nor can it be hypothesized conditionally,
The turmoil emotion intrinsically creates,
When alone they stare into death's reality.

Two dimensional is the biography of any man.
We see his length and width, never grasping depth,
Though fortune deems we live within his span.
Much like this into my life have crept
Those I love, yet may never understand.

when life becomes unbearable,
I coalesce into         nothing.
I kneel down  to     surrender,
my last ounce of   pride.
admitting defeat    to
God so I may         live.

What's more deadly
A gun or a thought?

A gun gives you the opportunity,
But a thought pulls the trigger.

go ahead
put your feet up
make sure that everything is clean
because youre going to be sitting for a while

maybe rocking
but that just depends on your style
some people get out the stress like weirdos
personally, i just like to stare in the void vacantly

this isnt going to be some run of the ******* mill tussle
what this is
THIS?
this is a marathon pit fight
this is
blood and
teeth
and
flesh ripped
and left hanging

but you still stare into the void

because youve trained your whole life for this
and ill be ****** if anyone can take it from me

so on

and even the reprieves offer no consolation
when you get to sit in your corner
focused on the set across from you
plotting the next flurry

this transcends battle to the death
this is battle-to-the-death-and-then-the-guy-keeps-punching-the-other-til­l-he-dies
yes the visceral image of an incredibly old boxer
beating a corpse
and finally passing away from exhaustion

settle in

Zombie love becomes a thing when
You shake off zombie dust
From writing utensils and shoes
To find another groaning
Aimlessly careening
Toward a blow to the skull

Let's eat someone together
You share